‘See anything you like?’

Took it from there. Porter hadn’t been with anyone for ages and the sex was thus fast and fevered. Trevor, lying back in Porter’s bed, asked:

‘What, you just got out of prison?’

Porter gave a laugh, went:

‘Hardly, I’m a cop.’

Trevor, familiar with the workings of the Met, said:

‘They don’t go to prison?’

‘Not this one.’

So the relationship began. Trevor on leaving, with cab fare from Porter, said:

‘I’m not a quick shag, I want something meaningful.’

So did Porter.

He didn’t get back to Trevor for a time as he’d launched a full investigation into accidents during the previous weeks and, sure enough, two fit the so-called ‘hits’ that Ford claimed. The media had run with the story, proclaiming:

MANNERS PSYCHO ON LOOSE.

They were treating it more as filler, didn’t really believe it was true. For this Porter was grateful; he’d a bad feeling that this was going to get very serious. Witnesses were none. Family and work colleagues of the two did concede that both victims were:

‘… difficult, inclined to rudeness.’

The Super had Porter in again, asked:

‘Is it true, did he kill two people?’

Porter moved cautiously, stammered:

‘It’s pos-sible, but we’re still checking.’

Brown wasn’t impressed, shouted:

‘What’s with the stuttering, is that a gay thing, a type of lisp coyness?’

Porter had to bite down, went:

‘Sorry, sir, when I’m nervous, it happens.’

The Super looked as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, shook his head, said:

‘Get it sorted. I don’t want this to escalate.’

Porter took a deep breath, ventured:

‘Should we consider a task force?’

The Super rose out of his chair, a very bad sign, pointed his finger, and said: